My Black is NOT Cracking.

People ask me how I’m doing, and lately my answer seems to be one of two things:

“I’m tired.”

Or…

“I’m exhausted.”

I actually hear myself saying it to myself and to others who did not even ask!

I say those words way too often.

Here’s the strange part.

I used to never get tired.

I recently unpacked a calendar from 2017. It had been sitting in a box for nine years and opening it was like discovering evidence from another lifetime.

Every page was crammed with work.

There was usually one day off each week—Saturday. That was it.

And if that wasn’t ridiculous enough, every single Wednesday I flew across the country.

One week I’d work Wednesday during the day, head straight to the airport, catch the red-eye, sit next to the wrong person, land on the East Coast, take a two-hour nap, and go directly to work.

I’d work Wednesday through Friday, have Saturday off, work Sunday through Tuesday, then Wednesday morning I’d fly back across the country, land, and drive straight to work.

One Wednesday lasted twenty-two hours.

The other lasted nearly thirty.

Who needs daylight savings time when your Wednesdays are bending the laws of physics?

And yet…

I still cooked.

I kept the house clean.

Went to the gym.

Did the laundry.

Managed four rental properties.

Met friends.

Spent time at the beach.

Actually, had hobbies.

I even had fun.

I did that for three years.

Want to know something else?

I was 58.

Not 28.

Fifty-eight.

After that, my travel stopped, but the workload didn’t.

For the next four years I worked an average of sixty hours a week.

Some weeks seventy.

A few luxurious weeks… fifty.

Never forty.

And somehow…

I still wasn’t tired.

So, what changed?

Because today I can work half as much and somehow feel twice as exhausted.

I don’t think it’s age.

I think it’s stress.

I think it’s worry.

I think it’s trying to juggle six balls instead of two.

Back then, my life was insanely busy, but it was predictable.

I took the same flights.

Stayed in the same places.

Worked the same schedule.

It became a rhythm.

Today my calendar looks like someone spilled Scrabble tiles on it.

Bookkeeper.

Foundation.

Part-time job.

Property management.

Family.

Doctor appointments.

Bills.

Phone calls.

Emails.

Creative projects.

Writing.

Life maintenance.

Did I pay that bill?

Did I answer that email?

Did I forget that deadline?

Did I leave the clothes in the washer…again? Damn! They’re dry. Damn, no I have to fold them and put them away!

The mental tabs never close.

At night, instead of sleeping, my brain decides it’s the perfect time to hold a staff meeting.

It reviews tomorrow’s to-do list…

Then next week’s agenda…

Then invents three new things to worry about.

Some nights I wake up with my heart pounding so hard I can’t decide whether I’m having a heart attack, or my anxiety is simply trying out for Broadway.

Every Sunday I faithfully write my to-do list for the coming week.

Every Sunday I create a schedule that would require three versions of me and a personal assistant.

Then, at the end of the day, I move unfinished tasks to tomorrow.

Then the next day.

Then next week.

And somehow, I treat this as a personal failure instead of simple math.

I’m beginning to realize something.

Maybe I’m not physically exhausted.

Maybe I’m emotionally overbooked.

Maybe the weight isn’t the work.

Maybe it’s carrying every responsibility around in my head all day long.

Maybe the hardest thing I lift isn’t a box.

It’s expectation.

My own.

I also realized something else.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped making room for joy.

I remember reading a novel for hours without feeling guilty.

Getting completely lost in a painting—even if it turned out looking like a crime scene.

When I lived in downtown Los Angeles, I’d spend Saturday mornings wandering through the Flower District buying fresh flowers.

I’d come home and make three arrangements.

One for the dining room.

One for the bedroom.

One for the living room.

I’d listen to music and crack open a nice bottle of cabernet.

I lived alone. I rarely had guests. Not like anyone else was going to see them. I did it simply because it made me happy. (Although I think I was too stupid to know I was!)

I remember spending entire afternoons in the library.

Leaving with more books than I could possibly read, and usually more than I could comfortably carry.

I’d have to buy one of those oversized library bags because curiosity apparently weighs about thirty pounds.

The art museum was a few blocks away where I would often go and stare at the Picasso’s. 

Those weren’t wasted hours.

They were the hours that fed me.

Now, too many of my days are filled with chores instead of curiosity.

Responsibilities instead of rituals.

Tasks instead of tiny pleasures.

I feel like a rat running through a maze I designed myself.

Always moving. (I have one speed! Fast!)

Rarely arriving.

And I’m tired.

Not because I’m getting older.

Because somewhere along the way, I forgot that life isn’t just about checking things off a list.

It’s also about putting a few things on the list that make you want to get out of bed in the first place.

Maybe soon I’ll create time to buy the flowers.

Maybe I’ll check out too many library books.

Maybe I’ll read one in the middle of the afternoon on a Saturday without apologizing to my to-do list.

Because if I learned anything from that old calendar, it’s this:

It wasn’t the hours that were wearing me out.

It was forgetting to leave any of them for me.

“I’m Not Tired Because I’m Older.